Lies And Other Truths
by Krissy Mae Anderson
Summary: In 1967, House is dealing with his grandmother's death. AUish.


_"Lies (And Other Truths)" by Krissy Mae Anderson_

**Summary: **In 1967, House is dealing with his grandmother's death. (AU-ish.)  
**Rating: **T  
**Spoilers:** "One Day, One Room"  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own House. I wouldn't be an unemployed student if I did.  
**Warnings: ** OC death, vague references to child abuse.  
**Acknowledgments: **Thanks go to my beta **noctuabunda** for her kind words and expertise, as well as to **Margaret **and** Neth, **for their extensive help with the plot.  
**Author's note:** This story jumped at me out of nowhere as I watched "One Day, One Room", and wouldn't leave until I finished it, which is the reason I've nicknamed it "The Fic From Hell". Sorry if the ending sucks - it gave me a lot of trouble and I can't think of a better one. "Lies" is the Dutch version of Lisa/Elizabeth, and is pronounced "Lees", and not like the English word "lies". The title is shamelessly stolen from a _Homicide: Life on the Street_ episode title.

* * *

Lies Connolly (née de Schutter) died on a hot summer day, peacefully, if her obituary was to be believed. _Wife of late Paul Connolly; sister of Pauline Visser, beloved mother of Marius, Charlotte and Blythe; dearly missed mother-in-law of Larry and John, loving grandmother of Matilda, Richard, and Gregory._

Everyone except Matilda and Richard (and Lies' dead husband) knew that she didn't die quietly in her sleep, but it was not spoken about – after all, the woman was dead and awaiting burial, and four of her family members were relieved that she was gone. It had been her time, the three adult ones whispered amongst themselves – _Moedertje_ had been slipping away recently, and they could no longer recognize the mother who used to kiss their cheeks and ruffle their hair, the woman who baked delicious apple pies and ironed their clothes to crispy perfection. It had all started after Daddy's stroke, they agreed – having to see someone dear to you slowly die would change anyone.

The fourth family member had no explanations, excuses, or good memories of Lies – he was simply glad Oma was dead, but he knew that feeling that way was wrong, and he alone knew just how far away from peaceful her passing was. His mother blamed his strange demeanor on the shock – "poor boy, walking in on such a horrible sight", she said tearfully to her sister Charlotte, as she ran her fingers through his hair, "my poor baby." He hugged his mother and silently stared at the weave of her sweater, breathed in the scent of her cloying perfume and tried to suppress the confusing, painful feelings as her fingers continued to brush through his hair, mechanical and monotone, counting away the seconds towards the moment when Lies would be buried.

* * *

Of all the three adults, only Marius would have perhaps understood how Lies' grandson felt, but he was never good at talking with children, even his nephew, who was never too child-like to begin with. Blythe and Charlotte never knew of Lies' demons; they were her dear girls; dear, pure girls to be protected from the evil cheating ways of men – but Marius and Gregory, they had no excuse, they were not pure, not innocent, especially Gregory. Lies had to make sure they would obey, and she succeeded with Marius – he was thankful to her – his mother was strict, but she had made him strong, disciplined, or it was at least what he believed.

In those days, Lies' real illness had no name – it was invisible and silent. She thought that she was helping Gregory – it was not the boy's fault that he was wrong, that he needed to be corrected, he was born that way, and his true nature needed to be suppressed, squeezed out of him until only good was left, so he could be like Marius, cleansed of his wrongness. Lies didn't believe in God or the Devil; she believed in what her troubled mind concocted, and the unwritten rules of those illusions were never meant to be broken in her house, even if the wrongdoer was four years old.

The first time Gregory was left at her house she immediately knew that he was worse than Marius, so much worse. She had helped him a lot in the six months his parents were away – he learned well, she admitted, even if he refused to take her words to heart. John and Blythe were impressed by their son when they returned from Florida; he had been so tough to handle when he was a toddler, too inquisitive and too accident-prone, and the clean-cut, polite boy who greeted them at the door was a living proof of his grandmother's childrearing ability. They decided to keep leaving him with Lies – after all, John had some short-term postings coming up, and it would just be terrible to take a child from his loving grandmother's home and uproot him in the most crucial years of his childhood.

Lies managed to tame him, or so she thought. Any dissent was dealt with severely, and it became rarer with every year. After the last time she caught Gregory reading a book after his bedtime, three months before, there had been no outbursts, no attempts at rebelling, and she believed that she had finally reached that magic point where he would be all right. Such a change from the little fiend he used to be – not a speck of dust on his clothes, not a hair out of place, no speaking out of turn, no asking of stupid questions. Lies thought that she was helping her grandson by forcing his life to be lived by a set of rigid rules; she thought that he should be grateful, not understanding that he was afraid of her, and did not love her as she imagined him to.

But on the day she died, Lies found out how wrong she had been. Her grandson had lied to her about the reason why he came home late from school the day before, and when she confronted him about it he stood fast, his blue eyes suddenly bitter beyond his age. Nothing would make him apologize for lying; she had tried gentleness, but as unaccustomed to it as she was, she had made a mess out of it, and made Gregory even more reticent; a strict tone of voice did nothing to make him penitent for his misdeed; muttering about the little wicked child in her mother tongue yielded the unwelcome knowledge that Gregory understood far more Dutch than he had let on and that his opinion of her wasn't quite as high as she had thought.

Lies saw red, and her fury masked the dull pain in her chest, the pain that she always thought of as the pain of a broken heart, and for which her cardiologist had some strange name that she could never remember. She knew that she had to be fair, but she would be stern, far more than she had been before. Soon Gregory was banished to his room, his face streaked with tears and his tongue burning with the taste of soap, the door locked and the key deposited in the pocket of her apron. Lies sat on a chair in the living room, surrounded by Gregory's confiscated belongings – for it wouldn't have been a punishment if he were allowed to keep anything of his in the room, and tried to calm down. Her arms felt heavy and painful, and she felt tired, but she ascribed it to the stressful day she had had.

The house was silent, lights flickering slightly as sluggish moths crashed into them, and Lies felt like the air in the house was suffocating her. She fanned her face with one of Gregory's books, and listened for any noises from his room, but not a sound escaped it. It was as if he wasn't there at all. The air became more stifling and Lies took the old fan from the cupboard and turned it on, but her chest felt tighter then before, and she felt like she was drowning, trapped in a room with the water rising as the precious air disappeared. Her heart felt like it had turned into a moth, fluttering and trapped, and Lies suddenly knew that it would escape.

The clarity of mind that had long deserted her returned suddenly, and Lies stifled a sob when she realized that she had minutes left to live. As any human being faced with this revelation, she was terrified. She retrieved the key from her apron pocket, but it slipped through her fingers and clattered under the cupboard. Lies dropped to her knees as the heart-moth fluttered madly, trying its best to go for the kitchen lamp. She managed to find the key on the third try, and unlocked the door to Gregory's room, holding onto the door handle like it was an anchor, holding on so hard her knuckles went white. Gregory looked up at her, startled, from the corner he had burrowed himself into and she suddenly understood that what she had thought was obedience was fear all along, fear and mistrust.

But there was no time for musings or understanding, no time left for anything. Lies slid down to the floor, her fingers barely touching the door handle, and called Gregory's name. It sounded like a different name, a name of another child. The pain strangled Lies' voice – the usual harsh "Ghreghory" came out as it was supposed to be pronounced, almost the way Blythe said it, and her grandson seemed to be frozen in place, astounded by the change in her voice. "Help," she whispered, and the door handle slipped from her grasp. Gregory finally moved, exploding from the corner and running towards her, aware that something was wrong. Lies cried out in pain and clasped her hands over her heart, the kitchen lamp suddenly looking like a big burning sun.

"Oma, what's wrong?" she could hear Gregory say. "I'm sorry, I'll never lie to you again. I'm sorry, _Omaatje_!" There were tears in his eyes again, this time without the assistance of soap. She raised one hand and clasped his arm, robbed of her voice, the heart-moth almost free from the spider's web of the inner workings of the human body. And then one last shudder – and there was no more kitchen, no more Gregory, and no more life.

* * *

And now Lies was laid out in a coffin in her best dress, her hair brushed and coiffed, her family preparing to see her for one last time. Women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs and periodically disappeared into the ladies' room to check on their make up; men stood around and talked about everything but the funeral, and the children, save one, were occupied with a table full of snacks. Gregory had been finally persuaded to let go of his mother, but he didn't want to eat. He hadn't eaten for two days now – but he wasn't hungry. He thought that he never would be hungry again as long as he lived. He had found a place away from everyone, a dusty corner between a door and a potted plant and hid there, closing his eyes and putting his hands over his ears, shutting out the monotone muttering.

Gregory stared at the inside of his eyelids and thought about The Night. He had sworn to Oma that he would never lie to her again, but he had not sworn that he would never lie to everyone else, and lie he did, because he couldn't deal with the possible truth – what if Oma's death was his fault? He couldn't ask his father – the tall man in the uniform scared him, and reminded him too much of Oma, even though Oma was Mom's mother. He felt happy that his father was leaving next week for some really long assignment in a country Gregory had never heard about. He couldn't talk to his Mom either – what if she would hate him for what he did? Mom was the only one he trusted, even though she had left him with Oma three years ago. He couldn't risk losing the only person he liked, so he would just nod when people unknowingly asked him what they wanted to hear, because no one wanted to hear the truth, really, which was the most important lesson Gregory had taken away from the whole experience.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder and Gregory opened his eyes, startled. His father was crouching in front of him, looking uncommonly friendly. He lowered his hands and the sounds of the funeral home rushed into his ears along with his father's voice - "...time, Greg. Let's go." He was lifted to his feet and plaster dust was brushed off his pants with one swipe of a broad hand that proceeded to grip his shoulder and carefully steer him to the large room where the relatives were now gathering in. He followed his father to some chairs and sat down between his parents, his feet not quite reaching the ground. He stared at his shoes as some woman went on and on about Oma's life. His mother's hand sneaked back into his hair, a pleasant warm presence that made him feel like things might be okay again.

After some time everyone was up and moving – "we're going to say goodbye to Oma, Greg" – moving towards the casket. His parents held onto his hands, and he felt trapped as they neared the casket, where Oma lay looking so unlike herself that he almost didn't recognize her. His mother pressed a clean handkerchief to her lips and stifled a sob, and his father cleared his throat, but Gregory remained absolutely silent – he had decided that he was happy that his parents were holding his hands, because he suddenly remembered how Oma's fingernails dug into his forearm as she died. He stared at the now-unfamiliar face in the coffin and felt sad, if only for a moment, although he couldn't really tell who he felt sad for, Oma or himself.

Gregory finally looked away and let his parents lead him past the forest of floral arrangements, and out into the hall again. His mother let go of his hand and fled to the nearest cluster of women, but his father continued holding on to his other hand, and Greg was forced to follow him to a unoccupied corner. There, his father crouched in front of him, their faces level, and looked at Gregory, attempting a smile. Gregory looked down at his father's well-shined shoes, avoiding his father's eyes.

"You know I'm leaving for Vietnam next week, Greg." Gregory nodded. "You'll be the man of the house while I'm gone, so be good, and take care of your mother. Don't do anything to upset her." Gregory nodded again, wishing that his father would go away. "I know you're sad about your grandmother, but she's with grandpa now, son, so she's not alone." His father gave him a quick, awkward hug and stood up, patting his shoulder. Soon Gregory was alone again, his father absorbed by a huddle of men in black suits, and he escaped the stuffy crowdedness of the hall by sneaking back into the room where Oma lay, which was now empty save for a couple of old ladies chatting in the corner.

He sat down on a chair in front of the casket and looked at the woman who was Oma and wasn't, all at the same time. She held no answers for him, nor did his parents, and Gregory abruptly realized that the only person who could (and would) answer his questions about Oma's death truthfully was he himself, and that thought scared him, because it meant that he had to overcome his dread, which seemed almost insurmountable. Gregory didn't know if he'd ever prevail over it, but still, it gave him hope - now there was something to strive for, because there was a chance, however slim, that he would make sense of The Night at some point in time, because he knew that the only person he would never lie to was himself.

**The End **


End file.
